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“I can try.”
My younger brother was a mess.
I tried to soften my tone.
“Hey. I know that Mom and Dad’s deaths were hard on you but…”
“Thanks for reminding me, asshole,” he said. “I’ve tried to forget every day.”
I was the oldest and far more independent than my little brother. He was their little baby. Even when we’d been forced to go into the cocaine business, Ale had been sheltered from the more gory aspects of it.
And now I wondered if my father’s decision was really the right one. If Ale saw what cocaine did to our buyers, the end consumers who bought it from our dealers, then maybe he wouldn’t be so fond of the white powder that had recreated our family fortune.
“I cut you off because you need to face reality. Get a job, Ale. I already offered you one in our organization, but…”
“I don’t need a job,” he sneered. “Stop trying to be Dad.”
Ugh. “Listen, Ale,” I started.
“No, you listen,” he snapped back. “If you won’t let your dealers give me any cocaine, I can buy it anywhere I want. I still have my trust fund.”
“You do what you want, Ale, but you know that whatever decisions you make will impact your daughter,” I said. I couldn’t stop him from going out on the street and destroying himself with the impure cocaine that made it to street level. At least when he took some of our inventory, I knew that he was getting pure cocaine. If he bought it, I couldn’t guarantee that he’d be okay.
But I was done babying my younger brother. He was a father now. He’d made the same threat every time, promising to slow down and clean up a little, but he always did it for a day or two before going right back into his normal routine.
He was as thin as a rail, and if I didn’t do something, he’d waste away. I knew that my dead parents must be turning over in their graves. My father could handle Ale, but he was gone now.
“Ale,” I said softly. “I love you. I want to see you get better. Cocaine is fine as a recreational habit, like alcohol. But you have become a real cocadero. If you were an alcoholic, I’d be checking you into rehab.”
“I don’
t have a problem,” he shouted. “All my problems would go away if you’d just let me into your supply.”
“I already set up a spot in a rehab program, Ale,” I murmured. “I’d like for you to go there. I’ll talk to our lawyers about cutting down your access to your trust fund. I don’t think that you’re competent right now.”
“Fuck you,” he said, hanging up on me.
Closet
Naelle
“Who was that?”
Emilio just shook his head.
“My little brother. He has no idea how to take care of himself. I’m figuring it out, though.”
“You said something about rehab?”
Emilio shook his head again.
“He has some problems.”
He abruptly changed the subject. “Would you like me to take you to the G Spot?”
I choked when I started giggling.
“Is that a weird Ecuadorian way to ask if I want to go again? Because I do.”
